


quatrain and lies and sonnets

by triesquid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abstract, Derek is weirdly understanding of all things Stiles, M/M, Poetry, Stiles obfuscates like a boss, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triesquid/pseuds/triesquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles lies like breathing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	quatrain and lies and sonnets

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, this is kind of an experimental poetic-form piece. If I didn't say "Hey, this is Stiles and Derek!", it's likely that no one would know.

He lies like breathing.   
He lies and they’re terribly, awfully, unconvincingly obvious lies,   
but he lies and breathes and lies in the breathing and breathes in the lying.   
And it’s impossible to exactly tell what’s a lie and what’s the truth   
because the drugs slow him up and speed him down in strange ways   
(thins out his blood to make him something less himself and more average,   
more like everyone else)  
(which is like a sacrilege)  
that aren’t normal, that aren’t right, that aren’t righteous.   
And he remembers that you have to be attentive to the lies and the truths   
and the half-truths and the half-lies   
(and you’d think that they’d be the same, but— _fuck_ —they’re not; they’re _really, really not_.)   
and the quarter-whatever-the-fuck we’re calling them today,   
and you have to parse the (con)text, the (para)text,   
and pay attention to the bleeps and where the up-ticks are   
because, even then, they’re not telling you what’s the truth or the lie.

His lies are like quatrains, like art, like life,   
like cozy blankets and roaring (killing) fires on cold nights.

There’s an art to reading the syncopation of his lies,   
but not an art that he’s really ever managed to get a firm handle on.   
He just kinda (intuits) guesses half-(whole)-heartedly and plays the percentages,   
(and _gods_ , he hopes that he’s guessing right this time,   
doesn’t know what will happen if he’s wrong again because he’s wrong a lot,  
and that face when he guesses wrong is dark and still and terrifyingly disappointed)  
tries to remember that emphasis and accent and scanning are everything in this—  
obfuscation golden and sweet and stunning in its complexity, sweet on his tongue—  
as truth and lies and everything in between   
(in whatever percentages that never-quiet mouth feels like divvying out this time)   
come tumbling prettily out of that pretty mouth,  
a mouth formed over lies and hard-won truths and bravery and stupidity and fearlessness—   
not the lack of fear, but something that’s able to move beyond fear to persevere—  
(and really, why was it wrong to say that boys had pretty mouths, who made that decision)  
writhing livid and lithe and living   
and are licked (kissed) away by prayers and chants and sonnets and requiems because,   
if he can’t tell (discover) (uncover) (send out a search party to find the answer to) what’s  
lying or truthing or half-falsing or whatever,   
then the least he can do is ensure that his words   
(few though they are)   
are clear and certain and safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr here: http://tentacle-made.tumblr.com/post/31223150358/he-lies-like-breathing-he-lies-and-theyre.


End file.
